Nothing Compares 2 U

Sometimes, in your deepest rage, you imagine terrible things, the awful things you’d say at that darkest of moments.   You rehearse and refine them while you’re raking the leaves or cleaning the commode.   Steeling yourself, you forge forward, sharpen your blades, prepare to pounce on the unsuspecting prey.

And the next day, nothing broached or uttered or subject skirted, you spend the day creating, laboring, testing, trying.   The moment comes and goes.   The anger passes by like a whisper, in the dark, miles away.

And cleaning the dishes, somehow it bubbles to the surface.  It breaks from the crust, clean and delicate and wonderful.   Much like the meal.   It comes out of you in a hug, a moment of honesty and tenderness, acquiescence and oneness.

And it works.  That airy souflée of truth.   At its apex.   Luscious and wonderful, light and not yet deflated.

Received and responded to with equal honesty, realization, guilty regret and promise.

Trust.  Truth.

And it works.  Far better than you planned or plotted in your sabotage.  The combination better than the single ingredient.

When does one learn?  When does one listen?  Where is patience?  Where is understanding?

Quit imagining more.

We ask ourselves.

 

 

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